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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30004851">Lyrical Transaction</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chanonvic/pseuds/Chanonvic'>Chanonvic</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hetalia: Axis Powers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon Universe, Hetalia Countries Using Human Names, Kissing, M/M, Rock and rap appreciation, music references</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 20:21:38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,475</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30004851</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chanonvic/pseuds/Chanonvic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>He still remembers when rock 'n' roll crossed over, on the heels of jazz and the blues – it had seeped in so that, for all its sudden emergence, the genre was forever entrenched in British pop culture. And it could have ended there, but of course American ingenuity struck again.<br/>---<br/><i>Arthur appreciates rap, especially when it comes from Alfred's lips.</i></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>America/England (Hetalia)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Lyrical Transaction</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He loves Alfred's tongue. Arthur has no idea when it happened, is just vaguely aware of the shift from impossibly blue eyes looking up at him and drinking in every word he wrote and spoke, to that now wire-framed gaze peering down to him in thinly veiled amusement at some turn of phrase or other.</p>
<p>It's strange ('tis passing strange) to think that the entirety of the United States of America has passed in a tangled blur, but such is barely two and a half centuries of sovereignty to his millennium and a half. Still, Arthur can't deny the accomplishments decorating the near two hundred and fifty years. And, sure, the military might, global preeminence, technological advancement, and scientific innovation are impressive, but he had to admit it was America's entertainment value he admired. It was decidedly narcissistic, but it set him ablaze to read – and, better, <em>hear</em> – what Alfred had done with the English language.</p>
<p>At first the deviation into dialect had stung, a thorny reminder of the admittedly inevitable, but that sensation dulled with time to an altogether <em>nice </em>tingle. And though Arthur would never be daft enough to admit it aloud, his culture spoke for itself.</p>
<p>He still remembers when rock 'n' roll crossed over, on the heels of jazz and the blues – it had seeped in so that, for all its sudden emergence, the genre was forever entrenched in British pop culture. He thought it faintly amusing – still does – that despite America's struggle over who had claims to his identity, he'd had no qualms about taking from those who didn't look like him after all. (In art, sport, and music, Arthur supposed, they were Alfred's citizens after all.)</p>
<p>Anyway, he takes perverse pleasure in taking the American and innovating it into something superior and uniquely British. America may have invented Motown and the blues, but only England could have produced The Beatles, U2, Queen. He's especially head over heels for punk, feels it touch and twang a part of him that resonates deep and echoes backwards. Thus, through shameless appropriation, rock becomes a currency for the two nations to exchange cultural riffs. And it could have ended there, but of course American ingenuity struck again.</p>
<p>Arthur can't grasp hip hop, not like he could the other genres. Oh, sure, his people imitate, but it lacks the grit that infatuated him with the style to begin with. It's poetry and rhythm, but <em>more</em>. It's oral tradition and historical reenactment, but <em>more</em>. It's clever music sampling and talented sound mixing, but <em>more.</em> He loves it even as he doesn't understand it.</p>
<p>How had someone managed to rhyme with orange after all these years?<a href="https://youtu.be/lPcR5RVXHMg">[1]</a> </p>
<p>Who could have thought up the pun of calling a white luxury car a Miracle Whip?<a href="https://youtu.be/ikiWa6v_Kn4">[2]</a></p>
<p>Why does "natural" rhyme with "afro" sometimes?<a href="https://youtu.be/H4RELGc9su8">[3]</a></p>
<p>How do two whole albums about chasing sunsets gain commercial success?<a href="https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL1W319QPfFh1KWWtHWAbDFEWvCugMjnZ4">[4]</a><a href="https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL1p_MRss7mbptq-CB7y4HHZhKeFpFygGh">[5]</a></p>
<p>He doesn't have answers, but (or maybe <em>so</em>) he openly admires Alfred and his people and their performative, lyrical genius.</p>
<p>That is to say: Arthur walks in on Alfred humming and muttering something under his breath in the middle of the lounge one afternoon. He's alone and focused wholly on whatever he's typing on his laptop. Arthur's curiosity is torn between what he's doing and what he's singing, so he watches from the entryway a few more seconds. He strains his ears and hears Alfred muttering, "<em>We wasn't s'posed to make it past 25, joke's on you, we still alive</em>," before it fades into incoherency again. Still, it's enough to trigger a cloying fascination to course through him so that he has to gently clear his throat to tamp the feeling down again.</p>
<p>This, of course, draws Alfred's attention. Their eyes meet, and Arthur decides to play it casual before the embarrassment of having been caught spying can get the better of him. "Wotcher, America," he greets.</p>
<p>"Sup," Alfred returns with a grin. He snaps his laptop shut, which also cuts the low music off, too.</p>
<p>Arthur takes it as an invitation to move into the room properly. He walks over to the chair perpendicular Alfred's and leans onto the back of it with one hand. "What were you working on?" he asks with a nod to the laptop.</p>
<p>Alfred glances on it. "Oh, some last-minute prep for a diplomatic trip to –" he checks his scrawled notes – "Somalia." He waves his hand dismissively. "You know how it is."</p>
<p>Arthur does indeed know how it is. He hums in the affirmative. "Well, don't let me distract you." Even as he says the words, however, he pulls the chair out to sit in. "I just had free time before the meeting and had planned to read a little." He takes the book tucked under his arm to flash to the other.</p>
<p>Alfred shrugs. "Okay," he says, as though the two of them spending time together <em>not</em> arguing or scheming or drinking or flirting was normal, and he opens his laptop again. "Hope a little music doesn't bother you."</p>
<p>Reflexively, Arthur thinks to chide the other nation for failing to use headphones, but he ignores that in favor of the curiosity that brought him there in the first. "Not at all," he lies. "What're you listening to, anyway?"</p>
<p>"Kanye West," and Alfred cranks up the volume so the iconic hard rhythm and visionary musicality fill the space. He hits a button to restart the song he'd been rapping along to, and soon he's nodding along to it even as he begins typing out whatever document he had pulled up.</p>
<p>Arthur opens his book and pretends to read, but he's listening with rapt attention to the lyrics and the social commentary woven throughout. He, of course, knew of Kanye West, had listened to the typical hits, but he doesn't recognize <em>this</em> song. It doesn't have the hallmarks of modern hip hop, so he concludes that it's an older song. After a few verses, he's just staring at a page of his book, words blurry, and tapping the spine in time to the beat. By the time he realizes that Alfred has stopped working, it is evident by his grin that he's been watching Arthur for a while.</p>
<p>"Who'da thought you'd be a <em>College Dropout</em> fan?" he says through a laugh. "It's not as mainstream as his other stuff," and he jabs the volume button to turn the song up a little more.</p>
<p>Arthur is about to protest – the assumption of his being a fan, the disbelief of his <em>not</em> being a fan, and the loud volume all at the same time – but Alfred starts singing along again, and he's transfixed. As captivated as he's always been by America's music, there's something newly enthralling to hear the notes spill forth from Alfred's mouth specifically.</p>
<p>"<em>And we don't care what people say!</em>" he belts out, then sits back and laughs.</p>
<p>His laughter is a music all its own and so perfectly matches the carefree tone of the song that Arthur has to swallow the sympathetic emotion clawing its way out of his throat. Except this time, it settles low in his belly, transforming into something else entirely. Without thinking, and without breaking gaze, he sets the book down and presses his palms down on the table to push himself up. He leans forward, aware that the angle is awkward for what he wants to do but not caring. Alfred only stops laughing when Arthur crosses the threshold into his personal space. Pressed as he is against the back of his seat, he can't quite lean away, but he stares questioningly over the rim of his glasses to create the illusion of distance.</p>
<p>Arthur hesitates when their faces are mere inches apart. This gives Alfred enough time to ponder a question, clearly, as he opens his mouth to say something. Arthur doesn't give him the opportunity to utter the question he tips the rest of the way forward to connect their lips, and he swears he can feel the tingle of unshed words, or maybe it's the remnants of the lyrics from just half a minute ago. He takes advantage of Alfred's surprised gasp and thrusts his tongue into the warmth of the other's mouth. He strokes Alfred's tongue with his, eager to worship it, to understand it, to coax it, to taste the music that had danced across that organ for centuries. He sighs when he thinks he's found the flavor, and he breaks the kiss, satisfied.</p>
<p>When he settles back into his chair, Alfred's still doing that wide-eyed wonder stare. He brings up his hand to gently trace his lips, and Arthur is sure the other isn't aware he's doing it, which makes the gesture all the more endearing.</p>
<p>"Yes," Arthur says as he picks up his book and rifles through it, "I'm a big fan."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Interestingly, both rock and rap originated in Black culture. Rock is a descendent of Motown and the blues, while rap was inspired by soul, funk, and disco.</p>
<p><a href="https://youtu.be/0Tdpq3FRGhY">Kanye West's "We Don't Care"</a> from his debut album <i>College Dropout</i>. My favorite to this day.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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